When Things Go Missing
by KateCyrus
Summary: “Did you do it?” Dean shouted. The man remained silent. “Tell me!” - Sam falls victim to a classic urban legend; Dean falls short at fulfilling the roll of hero. Inspired after ‘Time is On My Side’
1. Chapter 1

I wrote this for my beta after 'Time Is On My Side' aired. It's a little outside of my usual, but I like where it landed so I've decided to post.  
Good news- it's already written! There are six chapters and I'll be posting one a week for the next six weeks.

Also- for those of you who haven't totally given up on **'Energies and Ice Cream'** - it too is finished and I will be posting the final four chapters immediately following the conclusion of this story (Starting June 30th).

Thanks! Hope you like it =D  
-Kate

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**When Things Go Missing**

CH 1

Sam woke up face down on the cold tile floor. His body ached, but not as much as his head. The smell of chloroform still lingered on his face. He pulled at his arms but found them bound behind his back, both at the biceps and wrists. His legs also, bound at the ankles and thighs. He groaned and rolled himself over. The bathroom was large and impersonal, a hotel bathroom, nicer than he was used to. Sam struggled to pull his phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open, hit 'send', then dropped it to the floor and shimmied along the tiles until the device was at his face. His brother's voice answered immediately.

"Sammy?" It was a welcome sound, yet still much louder than he would have liked.

"Dean," he said, keeping his voice quiet.

"Sam! Where are you?"

"Dean, shut up. I'm in trouble. I a--" Sam tried to get a better look around.

"Sam?"

"I'm in a bathroom- a hotel- white tile floor."

"What are you- locked in?"

"Tied up-- I--"

"Are you hurt?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted groggily.

"Sam look around- find something that lets me know where the hell you are- more than a tile floor."

"Kay-"

Dean sat in the Impala waiting for a response. It was only a brief silence, but his mind spun through the last several hours, through the last several weeks. It was a solid lead, one they had been tracking from town to town, always arriving just too late; death after death, each mimicking a classic urban legend. Whether supernatural in nature, or sick human nature, it was still unclear, but after weeks of work they had finally gotten a lead which predicted the next legend and location. Dean quickly offered himself up as bait while designating Sam as back up. He dressed the part: business suit, out of towner. He entered the bar casually and sat alone waiting for someone to approach him. Nobody did. Sam watched from a less social part of the bar, but when the whole thing seemed a bust, Dean's phone rang. He answered it, trying not to glance over at the caller.

"What's up?"

"Dean," Sam began, "he's not coming."

"Give it another hour."

"They had last call. No one can even buy you a drink."

"Fine. Give me twenty minutes. I'll finish my beer and keep an eye on things."

"Fine. I'm gonna wait in the car." And that was it. By the time he had finished his beer and walked to the Impala, Sam was gone. Now he sat impatiently awaiting any information Sam could feed him.

"Sam?" He prompted. There was no response, but as he listened more closely, he made out faint talking. He heard movement accompanied by his brother's muffled yell, then a stranger's voice spoke into the phone.

"Lake Jordan Inn, room 23." The call went dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**When Things Go Missing**

CH 2

Sam lay on his back with his head pinned to the floor, a hand clasped over his mouth. He tried to yell as the man crouching in front of him picked his phone off the floor and spoke to his brother. Slowly, Sam remembered.

He'd left the bar, walked down the street keeping vigilant the entire way, then reached the Impala and got into his usual passenger seat. He'd tugged his jacket up to cover his neck, then reached to lower the seat back. When he popped the lever the seat swiftly fell back; in the same instant, two arms grabbed him from behind. One held him to the seat as the other covered his face with a damp cloth. He'd smelt the chemical odor and knew he was fucked.

The man hung up the phone and tossed it back to the floor. He was a big guy, taller and brawnier than Sam. Keeping one hand across Sam's mouth, he reached to the towel wrack and grabbed a somewhat flimsy hotel washcloth. He turned the sink on and held it under the water. Once it was soaked through, he squeezed the cloth out and bunched it up into a thick wad. He removed the hand that was covering Sam's mouth.

Sam watched him warily, somehow the washcloth seemed just as menacing as if the guy had been wielding a knife. The man remained still and silent for a long time, studying him; finally he moved. Sam struggled as the man grabbed him by the face, and forced his mouth open. Although Sam fought, the guy shoved the wet cloth deep into his mouth. Once in place, Sam didn't scream or grunt, refusing to give the guy satisfaction. Instead he pulled his face away with a sharp jerk of his head. The man stared at him for another silent moment, then stood and left the room. Sam swallowed hard as small drops of water dripped from the washcloth and slid down the back of his throat. He shut his eyes for a moment, one moment of weakness, then opened them quickly as he heard the guy return.

The man walked into the room and dropped a large bag to the floor. From it he removed a quantity of rope and a long white scarf. He tossed the rope to the floor and snapped the scarf taunt between his hands. Sam eyed the seemingly harmless fabric. Swift and agile, the man came at him. He grabbed Sam from behind and pushed him up into a sitting position. He yanked the scarf roughly between Sam's lips, looped it off at the back of his head, then pulled tight, both securing the new gag, and driving the first one in deeper. Sam shut his eyes as the knot was tied in place.

He was gagged, and gagged good, and there was nothing he could do about it. It enraged him, the dense and silencing cloth which was tied into his mouth. He knew it was wet to keep him quiet, to keep him utterly mute. He got it, but he loathed how powerless it made him feel. This simple fact is why Sam did not take it well when he realized the man wasn't entirely finished.

Two long lengths of fabric remained hanging from the back knot of the gag. The man pulled one across Sam's mouth and fitted it snuggly in place covering from just above the chin, to just under the nose. He then knotted the end behind Sam's head, pulling it tight until the pressure choked tears into the young hunter's eyes.

Sam's thoughts raged like consuming flames; this was humiliating, and paralyzing, and he couldn't stand it. His only weapon while bound, and often his best weapon even while armed, was his voice. His ability to talk his way out, to reason his way out, and now he was speechless, weaponless, helpless. Sam screamed with all his rage: his body shook, his breath spouted out his nostrils, and practically no sound came through.

Sam's loss of control provided his enemy with exactly the test run he desired. The man smiled. He moved in front of Sam, crouched down, and looked him in the eyes.

"I don't have some sort of kink," he stated calmly, "I just need you quiet." He pushed Sam back onto the floor next to the tub, then stretched across and began to fill a bath. Once it was started he stood, walked out of the bathroom, and then out of the hotel room.

Sam pushed himself up the side of the tub until he was able to peer over the edge: it was just cold water. At any other time this wouldn't have terrified the shit out of him, right now it did. Sam heard the outer room door open and quickly dropped back to the floor. The man entered holding two ice buckets; he emptied them out into the tub and left for a second trip. _Fuck,_ Sam's mind spun and he made for his phone. Somehow he managed to push the send button and knock it up to his face.

"Sam?" Dean answered untrustingly. Dean kept the phone to his ear and his foot to the floor as the Impala roared down the highway at an insane speed. He waited apprehensively; as he had little faith his brother was on the other end of the call. When nobody responded, he pressed the phone to his ear and listened vigilantly. A wrenching shiver cut through him: staggered breath sounded from the other end of the phone in short bursts. _Sammy…_ Sam was there, he was sure of it, sure his kid brother was bound, gagged, yet still trying to reach him.

"Sammy listen to me- I'm on my way. Just- just-" there was nothing. What the hell was he supposed to say? His brother was helpless and in the hands of a killer, with his only hope miles away. Except Sam didn't know his only hope was miles away. "Just--" Dean toughened up and played his role. "I'll get there. I'll get there and I'll- I'll-" Again, nothing. What the hell was he supposed to do? He was just as helpless as Sam and he knew it, and Sam would know it too. He could say whatever he wanted to say, hide whatever he panicked to hide, but Sam knew him, Sam knew when he was afraid, and right now he was scared shitless. _"Sammy I…"_ He pressed the phone harder to his ear; there was only silence, and within moments the phone went dead.

Sam watched as the man tossed his phone into the sink. He was fucked; he'd heard it in his brother's voice: Dean would not be there in time. It was moments like this he wished he wasn't able to read his brother so easily.

Sam struggled as he was grabbed and turned onto his stomach. He felt the guy move on top of him, straddle him. Body weight pressed heavily to his lower back, positioned in just the spot to keep him flat to the floor. The guy reach for something; out of the corner of his eye Sam saw the man pick up a pair of small sharp scissors. Sam turned his head to see more; his left cheek pressed flat against the cold tiles, his right eye panicked for any sort of view it could get.

Treating Sam like a craft project, the guy began to work. Using the scissors he slowly snipped away Sam's shirt. He cut at the sleeves and neck until there was nothing to hold it together, then pulled the material away and tossed it into the corner. He moved to Sam's upper arms. He cut the rope which bound them and tossed it to the floor. He then moved to the rope at Sam's wrists.

Sam felt the rope loosen slightly; if he had a chance this was it. He didn't; his arms were numb and the grip on him unyielding. Sam remained a pawn; the man did what he needed. Sam struggled the little he could as his arms were bent at the elbows and twisted until they crossed his back. His wrists were re-tied in the new position, then additional rope was wrapped around his upper body, securing them to his back. Sam eyed the man with intense fury; it was disregarded. The man slid a rough hand along Sam's throat and twisted the hunter's head until it was facing forward. He then grabbed hold of the remaining length of fabric which hung from the back of Sam's gag and pulled. Sam's chin came up off the floor and his head cocked back severely. He screamed silently as the cloth was stretched and tied into the rope at his wrists. Rage pulsed through every muscle of his body; he wanted to scream and hear himself scream. He wanted out, he god damn wanted out.

Sam swallowed hard as the skin on his neck burned into the stretch. He was so bound, so gagged, so fucked. He'd never been tied up like this before: so completely immobile, so vulnerable to his captor's muse. His emotions reeled as the classic damsel in distress image flashed through his head and he realized that's all he was, just a TV version damsel, bound and gagged waiting for his hero to show up and rescue him.

The man was off him now, dragging what looked like large sandbags in from the other room. As they got closer Sam realized that's exactly what they were. The man dragged over two bags that seemed to be connected. He placed the first to one side of Sam, then hefted the second over Sam's back and dropped it parallel on his other side. A piece of fabric stretched between the bags, over Sam's back and bound arms. It pulled and almost fastened him securely to the floor via weight of the sand. Sam again shut his eyes; he was being restrained to stay still as possible. His breath sped up as two more bags were dragged and placed similarly to confine his legs.

Sam panted fiercely as the man reached under him and unbuttoned his pants. He undid the zipper, and tugged them down, bringing them just below and hugging Sam's hips. The man stood and again left the room. When he returned, Sam strained to watch as the man placed a tray of surgical tools to the floor, and Sam's fear was finally confirmed.

The man washed his hands, grabbed a soft white towel, and crouched low to the floor at Sam's face.

"This doesn't exactly adhere to legend, but legends change like cheap rumors and I thought it'd be slightly more terrifying if the victim were kept awake." He smirked. "Besides, your brother pissed me off thinking he could catch me with my own restrictions." Sam's eyes ripped wide with terror; his breath hitched beseechingly. The man paid no mind, he simply placed the bath towel to the floor and slid it until it was under and propping up his young victim's chin. "Try to stay with me." He picked up a scalpel, stepped to where Sam couldn't see him, and began to cut.


	3. Chapter 3

Heads up- this is a real short chapter, but I hope you like it!

Love to hear your thoughts =)

Thanks!  
Kate

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**When Things Go Missing**

CH 3

Twenty minutes out. He had made good time and the Impala continued to press its limits as the gauge read record speed. Dean focused on the flashing center line; slowly, he fazed out, his mind veering to thoughts of Sam. This guy could be doing anything to his brother, or he could be doing the one thing Dean feared. He tried to shake the thought off. He needed to stay sharp; he needed to stay focused. Dean glanced the road signs, his exit was in view and he slowed the Impala down and took the ramp. As he turned onto the dimly lit back street he again pressed his foot to the floor, driving up the speed to as fast as the road could be taken. Dean glanced at the clock and pushed out a determined breath. Ten minutes. He could push this and be there to save Sam in--

Ten minutes later Dean raced through the hall. At the far end of the corridor he located room 23. He pulled out his gun and tried the knob; it was unlocked. Dean pushed it open and entered. The main room was dark, yet faintly lit by a small streak of light which spilled from the slightly cracked open bathroom door. He glanced the area as he made his way toward the room. Gun up, he stepped forward and kicked open the bathroom door.

Dean's gut sickened; the room was empty. Where the fuck was his brother? He lowered his gun and his guard then spotted something. Dean walked to the tub and looked down into it; there was a small, soft, vinyl cooler. He tightened his lips and knelt down. He set his gun on the white tile floor and reached out for the case. He pulled at the zipper closure, and faster than he would have liked, had it unzipped and ready to open. He didn't brace himself, he didn't think, he simply flipped the top up and looked inside.

It was packed with ice, and deep beneath the clear wet cubes rested a dark, unidentifiable patch. This time Dean braced himself. He plunged his hand into the ice and hesitantly touched the sunken object with his finger tips; it didn't feel as he had feared, it was hard cold metal. He grabbed the object and pulled it from the ice.

Dean sat stunned as he brushed the wet residue from his brother's phone. The screen was dark and so he held down the power button and waited as it chimed back to life. The second it was on, it gave three distinct beeps. He checked the screen; there was a new text message. Dean steadied his hand as he opened the message. It read simply:

_If you want him to live- call 911_

_

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_


	4. Chapter 4

**When Things Go Missing**

CH 4

Dean continued to stare at the text message.

"No…" he growled. He tightened his fist around the phone and screamed, harsh and raw. "NO!" This wasn't over, not here, not like this. _Call 911… call 911…_ it ran over and over, frustrating him, infuriating him. He glanced down and grabbed his gun from the floor, stood, and just as he was about to exit the room stopped and looked back inside.

"White tile floor…" he mouthed quietly.

Dean walked into the main room and over to the desk. He shoved his gun into the back of his pants, then searched the desk top. It was sparse except for the hotel stationary. He shoved aside the paper and picked up its accompanying pen, took a good look at it, then stuck it into his back pocket along with Sam's phone. He walked to the curtains and slid them aside to reveal a small balcony. Dean opened the door and stepped outside. The room faced the lake. There was an almost full moon as he stared out studying the reflection of the inn on the water.

He was one flight up, it was a slight drop, but without hesitation he jumped the railing and landed softly on the grass below. He walked along the lawn to the outside stairwell. He hurried up the flights until he reached the top floor, then stopped and stared back out at the lake. He again studied the reflection, then turned and pulled himself up, over, and onto one of the balconies. He hopped balconies until he was several rooms over, then stopped and quietly crossed to one that had its door slightly agar. He moved away from the opening and huddled himself into the opposite corner. He pulled Sam's phone and the stationary pen out of his pocket, and dialed the number on the pen.

"Lake Jordan Inn," a voice answered.

"Room nine-eleven," Dean instructed.

"One moment please." The call briefly went into transfer; as it began to ring, so did the phone inside the room. Dean pulled his gun out and stood vigilant as he heard someone cross the room and pick up the phone.

"Hello," the man answered. Dean moved to where he could look inside. The man stood at the desk with his back to him.

"Where is he?" Dean questioned.

"He's right where I want him to be," the man replied.

"That's too bad, because I'm _not_ where you want me to be." Dean's voice spoke out into the room as he stepped through the balcony door, gun up and aimed. The man sighed, hung up the phone, and turned around.

"I'm surprised," he commented. "I knew you'd figure out the 911 call, I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try and catch me."

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded coldly. The man simply glanced toward the shut bathroom door. Dean retained his composure, kept the gun pointed, and began to walk toward the door.

"You're not gonna want to open that right now," the man warned. "It'll _break_ your concentration." Dean ignored him, pushed open the bathroom door, and broke his concentration.

As legend dictated, Sam was laid out in the tub, submerged in ice water. Only detectable twist: he was still bound, still gagged, and fully unconscious.

Dean pulled his eyes away and focused them back where his gun was pointed.

"Did you do it?" He shouted. The man remained silent. "Tell me!"

"It wouldn't be much of a legend if I just gave him a bath."

"What are you?! Tell me you're not just some fucked up--"

"Human?" The man finished. "You wanna know if he's gonna live. Don't you?"

"It's an urban legend. You need a full surgical team, sterile instruments, way more time than you had," Dean insisted in a low, panicked, growl. "It can't be done here. Not…" Dean swallowed a tight knot of air. "Not successfully."

"This is my show, Dean. I'm well aware of how it works." The man smiled slightly. "Don't worry yourself. I'm capable of much more than some… simple surgery." He snapped his fingers and his clothes turned into hospital scrubs. "These things are so damn comfortable, totally worth the two-hundred grand in student loans." He began to walk toward the balcony.

"Stay where you are," Dean said cocking his gun. The man shook his head in disbelief.

"I don't understand you. Here you are praying like hell that I'm more than I seem, yet when I finally reveal myself, you cock that gun at me as if it could actually do something." Dean kept the gun up and walked toward him. "Fine, maintain your false security. I'll be on my way."

As Dean reached the man he swiftly dropped his gun and whipped out a stake. Within seconds Dean had him up against the wall with the point of the stake pinned through his scrubs pricking the skin of his chest.

"I can't let you leave," Dean said forcefully. "If you're a Trickster then you can fix this." He poked the stake in further. "Fix him. Now."

"I can't do that, Dean," the man said coolly.

"The hell you can't."

"It doesn't behoove me. Ya see, there's no gentlemanly trade being struck. If I fix him, you'll just kill me; so I don't want to do that. But you can't kill me with Sam looking the way he does now- you don't know if he'll survive. You're the one that's stuck here, not me."

"Really? 'Cause I think we're both a little_ -stuck_," Dean pushed the point of the stake in further. The man flinched, then smiled.

"Okay- okay. Here's my gentlemanly offer. I won't fix him, I can't; it's sort of too late." Dean glared at him. "But- I will promise a full recovery from the surgery so long as when I leave I get a head start."

"What sort of head start?"

"The legend ends here. No medical attention, no hospitals. You take him from this room, you call somebody in, he'll suffer… _complications_." He smiled smugly. "But- keep him in this room until he can walk out on his own, and I promise just that- Sam will walk out on his own."

"Sounds great," Dean scoffed, "but how could I possibly trust you?"

"Well Dean, that's the nice thing about gentlemen, they're usually good for their word." Dean gave a dry laugh.

"No way. Can't do it."

"That's too bad, because we can't stand here forever, and quite frankly this is the only offer I'm willing to make."

Dean knew he was screwed. End of story, he was messing with a demigod; trying to cut a doubtless deal was a rare chance in hell. As for killing it, if the stake even could kill it, Dean knew damn well that ending its life didn't ensure Sam's survival either.

"In every version of the urban legend, the victim lives," Dean reminded.

"If you follow my instructions, this one will too." Dean continued to think, taking in all the factors. "Look Dean, I realize this is a difficult choice, so I'm gonna make it easier… you don't have to decide now." The man held up his hands, snapped his fingers, and disappeared from Dean's grip. Turning quickly, the thwarted hunter scanned the room: the Trickster was gone.

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Thanks for reading. Reviews are super appreciated! =D

-kate


	5. Chapter 5

**When Things Go Missing**

**Ch 5**

Crouched in front of the tub, no idea where to start: Dean stared at his kid brother, at the consequences of simply showing up late. Arms pulled behind, straight down his back, knotted to each other, secured to his bare back in thin, wet rope. Legs bent and bound, knees resting against the top edge of the tub, jeans soaked through. His height the only thing keeping his head above water; hair damp around the curled edges. Dean took his brother's face into his hands and undid the gag. He scowled; fought the back knot as if it was personally responsible for his failure. In the battle of yanking, he jarred Sam awake.

Stunned by the sudden open eyes, Dean concealed his panic and countered with assertive orders.

"Sam, look at me." Bleary-eyed, Sam looked at him. "You're okay. Hold still while I get this off you." Dean glanced at his brother's eyes, fury crossed their surface, but fear and humiliation branded beneath. "It's okay Sammy," Dean lied. He pulled out the scarf, then the wash cloth. Matted and pasty with dried saliva, the cloth peeled away from the inside of Sam's stretched mouth.

"N-ot- _not_ okay," Sam asserted with damage. Dean was at a lose. It wasn't okay, that was for fucking sure, that was the only thing he could be completely confident in.

Dean looked away, pulled a knife from his pocket, and cut the rope at Sam's chest.

"I need to get a look at your back." Sam said nothing. Disconcerted, Dean pulled him forward and propped him against his chest. He took a look over his brother's shoulder, Sam's arms were bound just above the elbows, icy water dripped from the oversaturated rope down his forearms and back into the tub. The water rippled only slightly from the recent movement and Dean stretched for a clearer image of what lie beneath its surface. His bleary view revealed bound wrists flanked by dual incisions, one on each side of Sam's back. Dean pulled his brother further from the tub, the water level dropped, and the incisions came clear.

On the left was a nine-inch, stitched back together, slit. On the right, a second incision, but less than three inches in length, still open and raw, with something yet to be identified sticking out of it.

"Dean…" Sam shivered.

"I'll untie you in a minute." Dean rubbed his mouth, unsure.

"I don't give a shit about the rope," Sam said gruffly, "what did that bastard do to me?" Completely focused on the second incision, Dean mostly ignored his brother's inquiry.

"Hold still." He reached down and lightly touched the object projecting from his brother's back. It was flat, two-inches in width, and rested inside the incision flush under Sam's skin, only its very edge visible. Dean touched along the cut, then across Sam's back. He could feel the defined edges of the object grossly raising his brother's skin to contain its form. It was some sort of card, but past that, feeling wasn't going to get him answers.

"Sam… there's something in your back."

"What something?"

"I don't know… hold still."

Dean grabbed hold of the card and slowly tugged at it. Sam's body tensed, but otherwise, he gave little reaction. Once Dean got a good half inch showing, he pressed his finger tips against it, and slid it steadily out. He flipped the card over in his hand: it was an electronic room key, marked room 912.

"Sonovabitch." Dean placed the card on the tub soap dish, then grabbed his brother and pulled him off his shoulder. He quickly confirmed why Sam wasn't pushing him for answers; the kid was out cold.

Dean took a moment. He stared at the flat, icy water; it was all for show, to taunt Sam, to taunt him. That was the end of it; he'd had enough of this guy's game. Dean pulled his brother from the tub and lifted him against his chest, one arm under his back, the other beneath his knees. With a strained grunt he stood. Water dripped and drenched against him, trailed down his chest, saturated the shoulder where Sam's head lay. He turned for the door, caught site of their reflection in the wall length mirror, and stopped cold.

Dean stared at himself: he looked like a hero posed strong and tuff with the villain's prey limply hanging from his arms. The image suggested a idealistic ending where he'd shown up in the nick of time, swept to his kid brother's rescue, and was now carrying him to safety. What a load of crap. Tears of anger faded the image that so bluntly taunted him. Dean abandoned the reflection.

He brought Sam to the main room and laid him on the closest bed. He used the knife to cut the rope from Sam's arms and legs. Carefully, he turned his brother over, once again exposing the surgical incisions: the one which was obviously a success, and the one which was obviously a statement. The former was red and raw and needed treatment.

Dean returned to the bathroom a scavenger. The drawers and cabinet contained nothing but space waiting to be filled with travel size toiletries. He shut the small door with irritation and stared blankly into the mirror. Before he could move, before he could think, his eyes shifted and far behind him on the bath tub soap dish the plastic card which he had tossed away with malice, slowly came into focus.

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Thanks for reading- next chapter is the final chapter.

=) until then- Kate


	6. Chapter 6

**When Things Go Missing**

CH 6

Sam woke up face down on the warm hotel bed. He pushed himself up; he was alone in an unfamiliar room. Sam threw the covers off his legs. He weakly slid from the bed, and with the help of the furniture, held himself up as he made his way to the bathroom. It was an ordinary room, but seeing it rushed back every memory he wished he could suppress. Sam rolled himself along the door frame until he was backed out of the room. Before he could motivate himself to confirm exactly what this case had cost him, he heard a fumble against the main door. With forced and lumbering speed he crossed the room and braced himself against the wall behind the door.

The door pushed open; Dean stepped in with a cold soda and a thrown expression. Sam sighed in relieved exasperation as Dean gawked at the empty bed. The door swung shut, and both men spoke at once, saying each others names.

Startled, Dean turned to locate his brother behind the door.

"You're up," he commented, stunned but pleased.

"Up? Not exactly," Sam corrected with strained vocals. Slowly, he slumped down the wall.

"Woah- hey!" Dean grabbed hold of his brother. "Come on." He pulled Sam from the wall and took on most of his weight as the two awkwardly made their way to the bed.

Sam dropped onto the mattress, his long legs hanging over the side. He propped himself sideways hunched onto one arm. Dean frowned over his brother's decided discomfort.

"Sam, come on--" he urged impatiently. He placed his dewy soda can onto the night stand and reached to force his brother back onto the bed. In the process his left hand cupped the back of Sam's neck. The moment Dean's icy wet palm clapped against Sam's skin, the young hunter yanked away with a distressed shudder.

Dean backed into the night stand as Sam rubbed the chilling reminder off his neck.

"Where were you?" Sam snapped.

"I just went--" Dean stumbled short in his simple explanation… _soda can_.

"I didn't know what the hell to think with the room empty!"

"I'm sorry. You've been completely out of it, I didn't think--"

"No Dean, you didn't!" Sam knew he was being unfair with his anger, but he was so pissed at what had gone down and his extreme lack of helpless involvement in it all, he didn't care. He shook it off and lied back. "Ahh-shit," he gasped as his lower back pressed to the bunched up sheets.

"Sammy…" Dean wiped his left hand on his jeans. He pulled the sheet out from under his brother and before Sam could object, lifted and shifted him until he was fully on the bed. As Dean reached over him for the blanket, Sam's hand shot up to deny it. The two made eye contact and Dean backed off_._

Dean traced his finger slowly along the top ridge of his soda and glanced up when he felt Sam had finally calmed down.

"So what do you remember?" He asked in his hunter's face. Sam evaluated, realized that this was the point where his older brother would follow protocol, would do a full assessment and make note in his mental log of the damage, both physical and mental, his kid brother had undergone.

Sam stared at the wall paneling; he stared for a long time.

"Mostly when I was awake, I was on the phone with you." The paneling was a deep dark brown with streaks of black at the edges. "After he took the phone away that last time he--" The edges of the paneling slurred together leaving no division, only wall. "He a-- he--"

As Sam struggled to find words, Dean struggled to piece together the scattered emotions on his brother's face; he had no idea what image they would form if properly fit together. He never would.

"The guy choked me out," Sam manufactured. "He choked me till I blacked out." Sam looked up knowing his brother would never buy it, but also knowing his brother would be smart enough to leave it alone.

Dean eyed Sam's neck; it was one of the few places on his upper body left unmarked.

"Okay…" Dean stated, being _smart_. "So he choked you out and then…"

"And then you woke me up in the tub."

Dean shifted disapprovingly: Sam was quick to edit out the large hunk of time he clearly didn't want to talk about. Dean should have known his brother would never be so kind as to skip over the short hunk of time he, _Dean, _didn't want to talk about.

Dean had been undeniably relieved by Sam's quickness to pass out in the tub, and was hoping to full on avoid revisiting the results of his findings. But now, it was obvious he would have to ante up, to throw all his grisly information into the pot for Sam to win, because Sam had played his hand right. Sam had bluffed when he wanted to conceal and checked when he knew he could force his brother to show. It was time for Dean to show.

"The thing stuck in my back-- what was it?" Sam pressed.

Dean lost his hunter face, _his poker face_.

"It was nothing… it…"

"What- was in- my back?" Sam insisted.

"An electronic room key."

"To _w-hat_ room?" Sam's voice broke; Dean reset his poker face.

"This room."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I couldn't move you. I think the bastard just knew we'd need it, sort of an _in our face_ that we'd be stuck here."

"Stuck--? Dean, what happened? Didn't you kill him?"

"Sam, calm down."

"Dean--"

"He got away," Dean broke.

Sam stared in disbelief, huffing out short bursts of air that bordered on the verge of hyperventilating. He was destroyed by this guy- _this thing_. He was surmising now that their original hunch had been correct, it was a demi-god; anything else his brother would have kicked to hell and back. That being true, he'd known from the start victory would prove difficult, but that was before he'd become the victim.

"How--? How could you--?" Sam shook his head and clamped up. Unfair again. He knew no matter how much their horrendously botched case was wrecking him, it had to be destroying his brother ten fold. So that's exactly what he did… _fold_.

"Okay," Sam said quietly. He sucked it in and nodded tersely. Dean's eyes widened.

"Okay?" He blurted in disbelief. Sam gave his brother a brief _what the fuck_ look, then sternly repeated himself.

"Okay." This time Dean got it. It was a gift, and he'd better hurry up and accept it.

"Okay." Dean nodded, then braced himself for the big follow up question: Did he do it? Did the guy _take_ it? The question never came. Dean could only assume his brother was again being merciful. What he could never assume was that having stayed awake through it all, his brother already had the answer. Ignorant of Sam's secret, Dean broke the silence.

"Hungry?"

"No," Sam returned miserably. Dean picked the can up off the night table.

"Soda?" He queried with a smile. Sam lightened up at his brother's attempt.

"Maybe…" he wavered. "Maybe…?" He searched. "Think they got Gatoraid in the vending machine? Uh… room temperature Gatoraid?" He amended. Dean concealed a different kind of smile.

"Actually, I think you might be in luck," he stated confidently.

"Really." Sam knew his brother would go wherever it took.

"Really. Just a…" Dean headed toward the door. "Try not to jump me on my way back in the room."

"No promises," Sam returned, his mood picking up. Dean pulled open the door, then stopped short.

"Oh- what flavor?"

"Uh… orange. If they don't have that--"

"They'll have it." Dean cut him off; Sam shook his head at his brother's persistence to please. Dean stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him. "They'll have it," he whispered irritably to himself.

Dean walked a few feet down the hall, stopped at the next door, and pulled room key 912 from his back pocket. He slid it into the lock, waited for the electronic click to sound, then pushed his way into the room. He walked straight to the back wall and grabbed what he needed. As he turned back toward the door he finally realized with full annoyance what the three objects in the center of the room were for. He gritted his teeth and reluctantly plunked down in the fabric fitted lounge chair, placed what he was holding on the table next to it, and noted the time on the mechanical, bell-style alarm clock which was perched, dead center on the table. He sighed heavily and sunk back into the cushions of the chair; he did not relax. As he sat there fidgeting, urging time to move faster, he recalled the first time he had entered the room.

The key was still wet; he turned it over in his hand. Knowing he had been left only one path- he took it. He cracked the door to room 912 a fraction and peered inside. The lighting was dim and seemingly from no source. He moved inside. It was just a hotel room, shaped exactly like the one he'd left Sam in, except every hotel-like content had been removed. There wasn't even a bathroom or windows, just walls, heavy carpeting, and eight strategically placed objects.

Five separately standing shelving units lined the back wall, each five feet in height with only one usable shelf at chest level. Dean ignored the three objects, _the waiting area,_ in the center of the room and walked straight back to the first shelf. It was the only shelf with anything on it and as he picked through the items, anger boiled up his throat: dry clothes, bandages, a suture kit, antiseptic, and finally, another room key. Dean picked up the second key: Room 911.

"Fuck," he spat under his breath. He clinched the key in his fist. Looking up, his eyes widened, he stepped back and scanned all of the shelves. "Sonovabitch!!" Each shelf was individually labeled in large bold print:

Day 1 - Day 2 - Day 3 - Day 4 - Day 5.

The kicker was that he was dealing with a demigod, the fucker didn't need multiple shelves, he could have one shelf and fill it at need, for the next five days, for the next five weeks. The key, the shelves, the supplies, this wasn't tripped out room service, it was a leash.

Dean punched the DAY 2 shelf. "Fine," he agreed furiously. "FINE!" He shouted loud enough for the demigod to hear. He snatched up all the things from DAY 1. As he paused briefly to rub his now swelling knuckles, he noticed a new item sitting on the shelf: an icepack. Dean grabbed the pack with his hurt hand and pitched it across the room. "Shit." He despised what these guys considered to be a sense of humor.

Dean snapped back to the present. He pushed himself forward in the chair and checked the clock. Enough time had passed to make a quick trip to the local convenience store believable. Before he could finalize the decision himself, a grating alarm rang forth from the small clock as it obediently informed him: time to go.

Dean smacked the clock silent. It toppled onto its back and lolled around like a capsized beetle. Just when it thought it was safe, Dean stood and swatted it clear across the room. It smashed into the wall and landed in a small, heaping grave of objects he had been angrily disposing of over the past two days.

Dean grabbed the other item off the table: the orange, room temperature Gatoraid. He shook his head at the mere fact that it existed, that he was continuing with this guy's game, that he was actually going to hand this drink to his brother. Shit. He hated playing it safe, but it wasn't his safety he was playing with, so he played. Dean stared at the Gatoraid and tried to focus on why he was here. The reason he had walked into this room, and would continue to walk into this room, was so that his kid brother would walk out of the room next door. But still, he wanted this guy dead, that was undeniable. Without looking over, Dean suddenly sensed that something new had appeared on the shelf. He wanted to ignore it, but curiosity got him and he returned to the back of the room.

Sitting before him as if under isolated spot light was a wooden stake, and a slip of paper with an address on it. Dean put down the Gatoraid and picked up the paper. He stared at it without really reading it, knowing exactly what the location would hold for him. Without hesitation, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and set the paper on fire. He dropped it back onto the shelf, picked up the Gatoraid, and decisively walked away. Letting the door swing shut behind him, he exited the room.

Dean Winchester had made his choice, and it was the same as always: he chose Sam.

* * *

The End =)

Hope you liked it! If you did, please let me know, I always love to hear from you guys.

Just a reminder- next week, June 30th, I'll start posting the final chapters for **Energies and Ice Cream**.  
Hope to see you there!

-Kate


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